The day started off sunny but as soon as I
got stuck into some serious pick-ups and drops the clouds appeared,
opened and left me feeling like the proverbial drowned rat! The
previously sun-baked London tarmac precipitated a film of greasiness
that had the Taiwanese tyres skating merrily as the VT500 tried
to cope with my impatient ducking and diving.
The Honda vee-twin was a testament to Japanese
engineering... despite eight owners and 220,000 miles it still
rattled merrily away and only really complained of massive neglect
when the oil changes were left longer than 1000 miles - by clanging
its gearchange and refusing to blast through the 80mph barrier.
Barrier was the right word, the worn bores
(original as far as I could work out), rattly valves and altered
carburation (airfilter full of screwdriver wrought holes and silencers
replaced by old Bonnie mega's) meant the motor wanted to turn
itself off as such unlikely velocities were attempted through
the crowded capital but on those odd, almost surreal, bits of
narrow causeway through the traffic chaos, it would just touch
90mph. The odd thing was, on the motorway when such speeds, and
more, were dialled in, once the velocity was attained it needed
little effort to maintain - the engine obviously less knackered
than its age and history might suggest.
Whilst the chassis reflected that age in its
shabbiness and splodges of rust, the steering was in another world
- much better than you might suspect! All this had to do with
the original design was in its geometry and weight distribution,
the suspension replaced by much newer and higher spec items, though
used and sourced from the usual compliant breaker. Not that there
was any choice in the matter. Despite being an old hand at the
DR game, the only way to make the dosh flow was by riding like
a mad young bugger, knowing that the cagers were going to get
you sooner or later but resting your survival on knowing how to
fall and wearing full body armour just in case things went seriously
out of kilter. Gives new meaning to the phrase, knights of the
road!
When some clown in a Sierra came out of a side-turning
at a velocity that was only matched by my own buzz along the gutter,
there was no way out. Not one to go gracefully into the darkness
beyond, I lost velocity by ramming the bike (its heavy-duty crash-bar
to be exact) into the car to my right whilst playing with the
relatively useless enclosed disc brakes. The result of such manoeuvres,
was the front end of the bike going about a foot into the offending
Ford and yours truly being thrown over the top. The car was still
moving, the connection made at an odd angle, the VT going into
a frenzy of destruction on the two cars.
It was one of my better landings, though the
suited gentry who softened my fall from grace would probably disagree.
Talk about bellowing like a pig about to be slaughtered. I was
too concerned for the fate of the VT to worry about my own bruises
or the immature babblings - the Honda had banana shaped forks
and a cracked wheel - all sorted out with a used NTV front end
- deliciously precise after the worn out VT components and braking
that had me cutting a thoroughly mad dash through the traffic.
The rest of the damage was merely superficial, just adding to
the bike's immense street credibility.
The VT didn't stack up as commuter of the month,
its age and worn state meant that fuel was a hopeless 40mpg and
it needed oil added to the sump every night - if it was hot and
I was particularly mad it was just about possible to drain the
sump of all its oil. Not that it stopped the mill working or anything
but did provide an excuse to avoid regular oil changes - no point,
was there, if it was all going to burn off or seep out of the
cylinder head gaskets! The most maintenance I did was kick the
exceptionally long-lived tyres and pray to the various motorcycling
gods for deliverance through yet another day. Notoriously tough,
VT vee-twins!
To get serious, it's possible to make as much
as 700 quid a week from despatching in Central London. I know
someone who makes five hundred quid a day in the City, but for
someone ill-educated and almost completely unemployable it's not
a bad crack. A bad week, when I'm off the pace and the flow of
work is faltering, I'll turn in three hundred notes. Reckon an
average of 500 quid and you wouldn't be far wrong. Responsible
DR's pay out on things like HP, insurance, road tax, etc but people
like me get away with murder, most of that money pure profit.
Give it a try, see if it suits you.
Dick Lewis